On Fathers
by Raphiael
Summary: Surely, Elimine frowns on stories. Lucius and fatherhood, in 4 parts.


**Author's note:** Partially done as a charity fill for Myaru, who requested Raven/Lucius childhood stuff. This. . . barely touches that. It sort of got away from me. Aha.

Anyway. Child abuse implications ahoy. You've been warned.

**On Fathers**

Lucius doesn't remember his father. Not clearly, anyway. He remembers some things, things he likes – the smell of tobacco smoke, the scratch of stubble on his cheeks, rough hands at his face and hair before bed. _Good night, son._

There are other things he remembers better – the sound of shouting, screaming, cursing, pale hair like his own soaked in thick red-black – but he doesn't like those things. He tries not to think of them, even though they creep into his dreams at night and lurk in the back of his mind by day.

He focuses on the good things, imagines there's someone familiar saying _good night, son_ to him before bed. He's good at imagining, but the priests tell him it's a sin to make up stories. Stories are just like lying, they say. Father Tristan, especially, says, in that honey-sweet voice of his, that Elimine's words are the only stories he'll ever need, that anything more would be frivolous, wasteful.

Lucius knows it's wrong, that surely Elimine frowns on the stories – no, _lies_ – he tells himself, but it helps to pretend that he doesn't know what Father Tristan tastes like, that the only stubble he knows the feel of on his cheeks is his father's. And it helps to pretend it's his father, pulling the blankets back over his bare chest and bidding him good night.

He hopes that Elimine is as forgiving as they say she is.

* * *

><p>Marquess Cornwell is about as tall as Lucius' father – at least Lucius thinks he is. Maybe he's a bit taller, or perhaps a touch shorter. It's hard to tell, with how much Lucius has grown since, and how hazy his memory seems to be, but he settles on them being the same height just so he can stop thinking about it. He tries, also, not to look at the red of his hair, focusing instead on how clean-shaven his cheeks look in the dim moonlight.<p>

"Raymond will show you to your room," the marquess says, and he nudges the boy, about a head shorter than Lucius, forward. Raymond, Lucius thinks, is too serious to be only ten, all huffs and pouts and scowls at the task. He's been told himself that he smiles too often, that he looks like a fool. He thinks for a moment that maybe they'll balance each other out, he and Raymond, but that's just another silly story in his head.

Raymond leads the way down the corridors and halls, though he stops when Lucius pauses for breath and he begins to look pale.

_Weakness, so soon, and with strangers, no less. Look at you. You're pathetic._

Lucius expects to hear it hissed in his ear, but nothing comes, not even when he refuses the offer to sit and rest. Instead he feels a hand on his own, tugging at his fingers, pulling him into a room more lavish than even Father Tristan's chambers.

"Your room. Here." Raymond hesitates, then prods him, insistent, toward the blanket-piled bed. "You should rest."

And Lucius does, though Raymond does not stop to wish him good night. Lucius doesn't need him to, anyway. He's used to pretending.

* * *

><p>It's dark, and Lucius can barely see the flash of Raymond's hair – still red, though he almost doesn't mind it now – by the glimmer of light creeping through the crack at the bottom of the door. He doesn't need light, of course, to hear the shouts outside, the crash of shattering glass, the screams of maids and servants he's known for almost a decade now. He's only glad he cannot see any of it.<p>

"Quiet," Raymond hisses again, breathless, frantic, though Lucius hasn't said a word since he was pulled into the cramped little closet. He feels Raymond's arm slung around his back, squeezing tight, and manages not to flinch at the slight rub of stubble on his temple. He can't remember when it was Raymond got so _tall_, an odd thought now when just one wrong move might send the door flying open and end both of them at once. Perhaps this is how fathers think – _son_, he imagined hearing once, _when did you get so big?_

As if hearing his thoughts, Raymond clenches down on his shoulder and tightens his jaw. "When we get out of here," he hisses through gritted teeth, "I'll avenge them. Both of them."

Of course Raven remembers the scene – Marquess Cornwell, slumped over his desk, his hair that same red, though not with blood. His wife by his side on the lush woven carpet, pale hands outstretched, as if to hold his.

But Lucius remembers more. The sight of half-finished wine, placed neatly between them, the little brown bottle beneath the marquess' hand. He pretends he does not, and accepts the story.

"Quiet, _stay quiet_," Raymond interrupts, and Lucius stays silent.

It's yet another lie he hopes Elimine will forgive.

* * *

><p>It's the same smell every night: chamomile, warm milk, cotton. Lucius thinks he might love it more than the tobacco smoke he so clearly remembers. He thinks the children like it, at least, the nightly ritual of tea from the garden and milk offered by the dairy, stories that don't even mention Elimine or her words.<p>

Sometimes Lleu likes to scowl at his insistence for rest, and Chad makes a fuss that stories are for little children, but Lucius persists nonetheless. And when finally the children – and they are all _children, _no matter what Chad tries to say – are drowsy enough to sleep, he pulls the blankets up over each one of them, and is always sure, after _good night_, to say their names.

Tonight is just like every night. The same drinks, the same names, the same sort of stories, before finally Lucius retires to his same bed to think the same thoughts and pray the same prayers. Raymond – no, _Raven – _of course, where is he? And Nino and Jaffar, are they alive to come back? He's heard nothing of Hector or Eliwood or Lyndis, or anyone else he still tries to remember.

But tonight is also different, for as Lucius brings his hand up to his face to brush away his long hair before starting to pray, he feels the slightest edge of stubble where he forgot to shave, a trail of light roughness up the line of his jaw. He thinks at first that he might get up, fetch his razor, and cut it all off, but he stops, and he waits, and then he knows the truth.

He doesn't mind at all, and that isn't a story.


End file.
